Page 35 of Hard to Fake

More than manages.

I never thought a guy making coffee was hot before, but this is some serious competence porn.

He pours the coffee, and I set the dog back down. The heat emanating from his body is too much to ignore, and I find myself leaning closer.

“It smells good,” I say.

He glances down at me. “So do you.”

My throat dries.

Didn’t have “add ‘hot guy making coffee’ to my fantasy list” on my bingo card for today.

I’m here because I need a date who will make it easier for me to land this contract so I can pay my bills. It’s not a chill day off for me like it is for him.

“I mean it.” My voice is higher than it was a moment ago. “Next weekend, there will be a lot of acting involved, but no matter how method things get, it’s not real.”

“Did you get a new phone yet?”

I shake my head and set mine on the counter.

He traces a finger along the cracked screen. “You’re not the type to make do, Princess.”

I shrug a shoulder. “I hear suffering builds character. That reminds me…”

I reach into my purse and pull out five one-hundred-dollar bills. “Waffles’s management’s share from the costume contest.”

I hold them toward him, though what I want to do is shove them back in my pocket.

“Keep it. He told me he had a good time.”

I arch a brow, gratitude rushing up as I put the bills back in my bag.

The money is nothing to him. This week, it means a lot to me.

Miles slides over the drink and waits for me to take a sip.“Tell me that’s not the best thing you’ve had in your mouth.”

I sip my coffee, the complex flavors dancing on my tongue.

"It's good," I admit.

"Fuck yeah, it is." His grin is pure male satisfaction, as if I just conceded that he rocked my world.

I take another sip. God, the contrast between the bitterness of the coffee and the sweetness from the milk makes my taste buds do a happy dance.

Focus.

"We need to make sure you look like the perfect Kappa boyfriend,” I say, steepling my fingers. “That means new clothes."

"I have clothes."

He heads down the hall, motioning with a hand for me to follow as Waffles trots after him.

Following isn’t a hardship.

The way those sweatpants cling to Miles’s hips has my fingers tightening on my mug.

His room is as clean and tidy as the rest of his apartment. The bed is neatly made. I can't help but glance around, taking in the details of his personal space. There's a guitar propped up against the wall and a set of weights in the corner. On the bedside table sits a photo of him and the guys from the team after winning the championship.

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